


peaches

by novoaa1



Category: DCU
Genre: BAMF Harleen Quinzel, BAMF Pamela Isley, Dark Harleen Quinzel, Dark Pamela Isley, Dark Poison Ivy, Dark(ish) Harleen Quinzel, Dark(ish) Pamela Isley, Dark(ish) Poison Ivy, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Pamela Isley, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Established Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, F/F, Flirty Harleen Quinzel, Harleen Quinzel is a Brat, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Sadism, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Mentioned Jim Gordon, Mentioned Oswald Cobblepot, Mentioned Spousal Abuse, Mild Praise Kink, Mild humiliation kink, Misogyny, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Oral Sex, Pamela Isley Loves Harleen Quinzel, Pet Names, Poisoning, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Restraints, The Iceberg Lounge, Truth Serum, Vines, Voyeurism, adorable harleen quinzel, instances of harley & ivy taking justice into their own hands, jim gordon is a good cop, misogynistic language, non-graphic mention of childhood sexual abuse, semi-graphic mentions of Law & Order: SVU-esque cases of sexual violence, vines being used as restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: You’re a stripper working nights at Oswald’s beloved nightclub—the Iceberg Lounge.Somewhere along the way, you meet Harley and Ivy. They stay to watch you dance and flirt with you (a lot), but you don’t think much—if anything—of it.You probably should have.
Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	peaches

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS. ALL OF THEM, PLEASE.
> 
> got this as a request on my tumblr, and it got a little out of hand
> 
> this is **DUB-CON** , you guys. please do not read if that'll trigger you in any way.

You awaken gradually unto a myriad of sensations. 

Fresh greenery in your nostrils like that of a botanical greenhouse, the air damp with nourishing humidity. 

A plush, endlessly comfortable marshmallow of a bed beneath your bare, buck-ass naked body. 

Last but not least: a warm weight squirming on your hips; a wet, hot tongue laving its way up the column of your throat—

Your eyes snap open. You’re in an unfamiliar room, its otherwise somewhat bland interior adorned in lush vegetation and greenery all around. It’s—

“ _Ohhhh_ ,” you cut yourself off mid-thought with a keening whine as teeth sink into the skin of your neck, nipping and sucking hard enough to bruise.

It’s a challenge just to keep your lids from fluttering shut beneath the sudden onslaught of sensation, but somehow, you manage. 

Vines slithering across the ceiling… as you watch, they grow and thicken and intertwine in a dizzying display of autonomy. 

Your gaze lowers to catch a glimpse of the figure atop your waist, the platinum-blonde head of hair working its way down your body, kissing and licking and sucking until you whimper. 

“H-Harley?” you hear yourself say, your words faint and groggy. Your body feels strange—warm and hot and tingly all over. 

At that, the woman with the familiar dip-dyed pigtails hastily detaches herself from your breast with an audible _pop!_ —then looks up and fixes you with a bone-chilling grin.

“Peaches!” Harley squeals happily, planting another playful bite just above your nipple and giggling against your skin when it makes you twitch. “Yer awake!”

You pull at your arms, desperate for some measure of control—only to find yourself bound tightly by either wrist. When you chance a panicked glance to either side, you find them coiled in thickened vines that slither further up your forearms even as you watch. 

Your legs, too, you find, after a series of experimental tugs. Emerald-green tendrils encircle either ankle in a tight, unyielding hold; it seems, too, that the more you struggle, the further they entwine themselves around your limbs. 

Harley must take note of your plight, because she pulls back and snickers, running her hands up and down your naked sides even as she fixes you with a vaguely chastising look. 

“Aww, c’mon, Peaches, don’t be like that,” Harley coos. 

You can’t help the way that something in your chest warms at the sound of the familiar nickname (something only Harley was ever allowed to call you), even as your brain struggles to comprehend what’s happening.

“Why don’t’cha just be a good girl for us and relax, hm?” 

_‘Us’_ ?

Alarmed, you turn your head this way and that, frantically scanning your surroundings for—

A familiar green figure sits in a cushy armchair at the foot of the bed, wearing a leafy-green body suit that clings to every curve of her voluptuous figure like a second skin and nothing else. 

She’s not even looking at you—or Harley, for that matter. She appears to be in a world all her own—fixating intently on a tiny little seedling sitting in the palm of her green-tinged hand… until, even as you gawk, it burgeons all at once, growing up and out into a beautiful pastel-pink blossom, easily the size of a softball. 

_Ivy_.

You feel kind of stupid for not guessing it earlier—what with the vines, and all. 

A hard pinch to your nipple jars your focus back to Harley, wordless pleas falling from your lips as she twists ever-so-slightly—

And promptly releases you, bearing down on you with a wolfish grin splitting her pretty features. 

“Eyes on me, babydoll,” she purrs, her warm breath ghosting over your lips. 

Quite suddenly, you find yourself nearly overwhelmed with the urge to surge up and meet her lips in a bruising kiss. 

It’s a close thing, but you manage to tamp down on the impulse. “Wh-What’s happening?” you manage to ask. Your voice sounds strange falling on your own ears… tinny. “How did you—?”

“We picked ya up after work, remember?” Harley simpers sweetly— _too_ sweetly. 

You frown, thinking back. You remember… the Iceberg Lounge—Oswald’s prized establishment, and your place of employment for the past three years. Dancing onstage as men whooped and whistled from the crowd, crumpled paper bills littering the floor at your heeled feet. 

Harley and Ivy weren’t there—at least, not that you could see. 

Sometimes they’d come for your shows, then wait to chat you up afterwards. These instances most always included no shortage of flirtatious commentary—though admittedly, that was more Harley’s thing. 

Ivy always seemed more than content to watch—unabashedly eyeing your figure up and down (even if covered by a black silken robe, which you typically threw on after every show), her lurid green eyes darkened with lust. 

The only times she ever spoke were to chime in with the occasional reprimand—gently (yet sternly) guiding Harley’s behavior. She’d tell Harley to spend a little more time nuzzling her nose along the underside of your jaw—making you visibly shudder with every feather-light graze, setting every nerve ending in your body alight with a bone-deep desire you could _taste_ ; sweet as sin. 

When she saw that something Harley was doing—or saying—was particularly getting to you in some way, she’d waste no time at all calling it out; broadcasting your blushing desire for the world (AKA Harley) to hear. 

“Oh, Harley girl—did you hear that?” she’d coo, the patronizing note to her tone making your cheeks burn with shame. “What a pathetic little whine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Y/N _likes_ the idea of you spanking that pretty little pussy of hers until it’s all sore and puffy and raw.” 

She’d chuckle, then, her gaze dark and intent on you even as molten desire seemed to incinerate you from the inside out. 

“And maybe afterwards—provided you take your pussy spanking like an obedient, well-behaved kitten—I’ll even let Harley fuck that tight little cunt until you scream.”

Despite these blatant provocations, you never took them seriously. 

After all, Harley never went any farther than groping your tits a couple times, or planting kisses along your neck or on either of your cheeks—some tongue, but never longer than a handful of seconds or so. Sure, she’d tugged you down in the midst of a show for a lap dance now and again, and the bold-as-hell comments she offered about your appearance made it abundantly clear she found you attractive… 

But, that was it. Just Harley being her flirty self. Right?

Ivy, for her part, never urged Harley to go any further, either; and she herself never went anywhere beyond talking… God, always _talking_.

It didn’t matter that the context of her words was always nothing short of filthy, or the way they never failed to make your cunt twitch and leak right through the crotch of your panties. 

It became routine, seeing them at least a few times each week after another one of your late-night shows. They’d slip behind the curtains once you collected your tips and strutted off the stage, hounding you all the way back to your dressing room… not that you minded. (Much.) 

The moment the three of you were behind closed doors, all bets were off. 

But again—they never went any farther than the occasional wet kiss planted along your neck, eager hands groping each breast through your bra… keeping up a steady stream of raunchy, _obscene_ dialogue between the pair of them that never failed to make you flush and ruin your panties. 

And then, someone (one of the security guys, most likely) would knock twice on your door—your five-minute warning before you were due to perform again—and you’d have to slip away. 

When you came back following the next show, Harley and Ivy were always gone—though, never without leaving some evidence of their visit: a new pretty floral blossom sitting atop your vanity, a blood-red kiss staining the mirror. 

And that was it. 

You weren’t an idiot. You knew who they were—Harley Quinn (formerly Dr. Harleen Quinzel, psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum) and Poison Ivy (once Pamela Isley, an accomplished doctor in her own right within the field of botanical science). Their reputations far preceded them. 

Batman didn’t much care for their well-documented immorality (and did not often shy away from stating as much upon being asked), and the news seemed to hate them with a vengeance.

The first time you ever saw them make headline news was just a short week after moving to Gotham. A tall, weary-looking white man with a receding hairline and prominent frown lines on either side of his thin mouth stood in front of Arkham Asylum, reporting on the pair’s recent escape.

If you’re remembering this correctly, some words and phrases—verbatim—he’d spoken included (but were not at all limited to): “deranged lunatics,” “hormonal, man-hating feminazis,” and “psychotic women who need to be put in their place.” 

And that was what he was saying _on air_. You could only imagine the vitriol he spewed behind closed doors. 

Well, regardless, that intrigued you—and perhaps not in the way the crotchety middle-aged news anchor was hoping it might when he’d filmed that particular segment.

Later that night, you did some research. There was no shortage of material to sift through: digital articles, newspaper clippings, television segments from GNN (Gotham News Network); all of which were decidedly less than flattering. 

And sure, after skimming for an hour or two, you might’ve been inclined to agree that their moral compasses seemed a little lacking. 

But at the same time, you were hard-pressed to wholeheartedly condemn any of their more notorious acts, either. 

There seemed a kind of pattern evident in everything they did—almost a code of conduct which both seemed to follow to the last letter. As far as you could gather, this included the following principles:

One: They didn’t hurt kids. In fact, in many instances, they’d actually been documented helping and _protecting_ children, even at great personal risk to their own safety. Every single time, the media reports expressed no shortage of abject disbelief at the pair’s inexplicable benevolence—always seeming to forget the tens of times upon which something incredibly similar had already been reported to have happened in the past.

Two: They were violent, sure, and oftentimes, they left some degree of destruction in their wake—burning buildings, totaled GCPD cruisers, the occasional beanstalk breaking pavement in the middle of a central road. 

And yet, the fact remained that any severe violence they waged seemed to be almost exclusively reserved for a certain class of wrongdoers: men (or women) who’d victimized their fellow citizens. 

34-year-old Leif Erikson—convicted serial rapist, caught on camera brutally sodomizing a 21-year-old fraternity brother from Gotham University. At some point over his trial, the damning footage was conveniently ‘misplaced’ by the Gotham City Police Department. 

Erikson walked free. 

Well, that is, until Poison Ivy cornered him one night with Harley Quinn at her side, then forced him to choke down a draught she’d brewed. Later that night found him in the ER, irreversibly paralyzed from the waist down and screeching to anybody who would listen about a green woman and her tattooed, hammer-toting lap dog. 

Two months after that, it came to light that Judge Faden—a prominent and esteemed member of Gotham’s upper class—had been brutally abusing his wife of 33 years, one Paula Faden. She’d spent the past year gathering evidence of her husband’s abuse. This included voice recordings, high-resolution photographs cataloguing each injury… hell, she’d even compiled _video_ ; a prudent maneuver that would only further bolster her in the likely event that her testimony was called into question. 

And yet, as a direct result of corruption on various levels in Gotham’s criminal justice department, Faden was rapidly acquitted on all counts. So, Harley and Ivy tracked him down and rained down a beating the minute he walked free. Ivy force-fed him a peculiar herb (the identification of which remains unknown)—like Veritaserum from Harry Potter. AKA truth serum. 

With that, they tied him up and left him gift-wrapped on the doorstep of Police Commissioner Jim Gordon—Batman’s close long-time friend, and likely the only non-corrupt officer in the entire department at the time. Completely unprompted, Judge Faden confessed to everything—even a handful of charges his traumatized wife hadn’t dared to sling against him in court. He was sentenced at grand jury by unanimous decision—25 to life behind bars at Blackgate Penitentiary, where he remains today. 

And the list went on. 

A 47-year-old woman who’d been molesting her adoptive 13-year-old son since she’d first fostered him three and a half years previous. She was found dead in the streets from a deadly poison later found to have contained lethal doses of deadly nightshade toxins. 

A 38-year-old hospice worker who’d been raping the elderly women under his care while they were too doped up on painkiller medication to even register what was happening, much less fight back. He was found dead at his desk with an oozing bullet hole between his brows and bright-red lipstick painting a chilling Glasgow grin across his pale features from ear to ear. 

So, yeah. 

Maybe you couldn’t (and still can’t) much empathize with the bank robberies and the lootings—though, being but a small cog in America’s capitalistic society ensured that you could absolutely understand the impulse. That said… the rest of it? 

Well. The rest of it, you definitely couldn’t really fault them for. 

If that shit ever happened to you on the streets of Gotham—which, considering the ever-climbing violent crime rates documented throughout the city, was not so much a matter of ‘if’ as it was ‘when’—they’re the people you’d want in your corner. 

When the jury, the police (—hell, even the damn mayor of the city—) wouldn’t protect you, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy would. 

“Peaches,” Harley prompts in a sing-song tone jolts you back to the moment, where you’re— _Right_. Naked and tied down to an unfamiliar bed, an excitable Harley Quinn bouncing in your lap while an unflappably stoic Poison Ivy watches on without comment. “Where’d ya go just now?”

You bite your lip, feeling a flush heat your cheeks even as you make the split decision to go for honesty here. “I was thinking about how we became… friends?” The last part comes off sounding like more of a question than anything else.

Harley snorts, shuffling down the length of your body until she can rest herself comfortably between your spread thighs. “I think we’re a little more than just _friends_ , now, sugar…” she drawls, planting a wet kiss beneath your navel that makes your breath catch in your throat. 

“Harley, dear,” Ivy speaks up at long last, addressing her partner-in-crime even as she continues intently studying the pale-pink blossom in the palm of her hand. “Quit playing with your food. It’s poor etiquette.”

Harley pulls away long enough to roll her eyes and give you a conspiratorial wink before promptly diving back in—nipping and biting and suckling hickeys into your quivering flesh from hip to hip, making you yelp and keen with every harsh bite. 

“Harley…” Ivy prompts, the barest hint of warning evident in her carefully measured tone. 

Harley pulls away once more to huff out an exasperated sigh. “But Redddd..”

“Harley,” Ivy admonishes, curt and short. 

The effect is immediate. “Got it,” she concedes, still sounding vaguely put out.

That’s all the warning you get before she lowers her face between your thighs, dragging the tip of her tongue through your folds—entrance to clit. 

_Fuck_. 

The sensation alone rips a shrill squeak from your throat—which would be humiliating under most circumstances, but the mess of arousal slicking your folds only seems to make it about a thousand times worse. 

“Aww,” Ivy coos, which doesn’t at all help the heated flush warming your cheeks. “We’ve only just begun, and already, she’s a mewling wreck.”

Harley hums an enthusiastic agreement—directly into your cunt, ripping a high-pitched whine from your throat. Your back arches obscenely up off the bed as lightning bolts of pleasure race up your spine like sparks of pure adrenaline—scalding you from the inside out. 

Ivy chuckles, low and throaty. “Ooh, keep doing that, Harley girl,” she goads. Her voice is coming from noticeably closer, now—no more than a stone’s throw away. “She _likes_ that.”

Harley smirks but complies, releasing another low-pitched groan into your sodden folds that makes you gasp and wail as a series of relentless vibrations assail your spasming cunt. 

And so it continues. Bit by bit, Harley’s mouth drives you steadfastly to the brink of insanity—lapping up your arousal with broad strokes of her clever tongue; suckling oh-so-gently around your twitching nub until you’re completely beside yourself, lost beneath an ocean of blinding pleasure. 

And all the while, Ivy keeps up a steady (read: intoxicating) stream of lofty encouragements—throwing gasoline on the roaring bonfire of your own wanton desire.

“Ohh, Harley, she’s so pretty when she whimpers like that. Make her do it again, darling girl— _Ohh_ yes, just like that—”

“Come now, Y/N. Don’t fight it, kitten. I know _exactly_ how good Harley can be with that talented mouth of hers… Yes, that’s it, sweetling, just let it happen—”

“She’s so close now; I can see it—the way she’s writhing and bawling, completely overwhelmed… Oh, that’s perfect, Harley, make her _scream_ —”

And… Yeah, that does it. 

You come with a shriek, convulsing wildly against Harley’s tongue as an earth-shattering climax takes your body by storm. 

It’s vast, breathtaking… something completely beyond your own comprehension. 

And, above all else—the best fucking orgasm you’ve ever had in your entire life. 

The come-down is gradual, almost peaceful—like autumn leaves drifting down on a crisp, wintry breeze. 

And all through it, Harley never falters. She’s relentless: laving your spasming folds with the flat of her tongue; suctioning her lips against your swollen cunt and suckling like she’s trying to literally gulp down every last ounce of your tangy slick. 

Ivy’s saccharine-sweet praises drift over you in soothing currents—blanketing you in warmth. 

It’s not until Harley finally pulls away from your sorely overstimulated cunt, and you’re left floating through a haze of intoxicating bliss, that you hear Ivy say, “Mm, go fetch the strap-on, Harley. I wanna watch you hammer her pretty little cunt until she cries.”

Your eyes snap open. 

_Oh, shit_. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> i need more seductress ivy in my life
> 
> oh also i made this [tumblr](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/) (@novoaa1writes) for writing-related stuff and reader-insert works if you wanna check that out at any point or come yell at me over there


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